ease the suspicion,
which eventually became conviction, that the Demon, keen at games,
popular in his house, clever at work--clever, indeed! Inasmuch as he
never achieved more or less than was necessary--generous with his
money, handsome and well-mannered, blessed, in fine, with so many gifts
of the gods, yet lacked a soul.

This, of course, is putting into words the vague speculations and
reasonings of a boy not yet fourteen. If an Olympian--one of the
masters, for instance, or the Head of the House--had said, "Verney, has
the Demon a soul?" John would have answered promptly, "Ra--ther! He's
been awfully decent to Fluff and me. We'd have had a hot time if it
hadn't been for him," and so forth. . . . And, indeed, to doubt
Scaife's sincerity and goodness seemed at times gross disloyalty,
because he stood, firm as a rock, between the two urchins in his room
and the turbulent crowd outside. This defence of the weak, this
guarding of green fruit from the maw of Lower School boys, afforded
Scaife an opportunity of exercising power. He had the instincts of the
potter, inherited, no doubt; and he moulded the clay ready to his hand
with the delight of a master-workman. Nobody else knew what the man of
millions had said to his boy when he despatched him to Harrow; but the
Demon remembered every word. He had reason to respect and fear his
sire.

"I'm sending you to Harrow to study, not books nor games, but boys, who
will be men when you are a man. And, above all, study their
weaknesses. Look for the flaws. Teach yourself to recognize at a
glance the liar, the humbug, the fool, the egotist, and the mule. Make
friends with as many as are likely to help you in after life, and don't
forget that one enemy may inflict a greater injury than twenty friends
can repair. Spend money freely; dress well; swim with the tide, not
against it."

A year at Harrow confirmed Scaife's confidence in his father's worldly
wisdom. Big for his age, strong, with his grandsire's muscles, tough
as hickory, he had become the leader of the Lower School boys at the
Manor. The Fifth were civil to him, recognizing, perhaps, the
expediency of leaving him alone ever since the incident of the cricket
stump. The Sixth found him the quickest of the fags and uncommonly
obliging. His house-master signed reports which neither praised nor
blamed. To Dirty Dick the boy was the son of a man who could write a
cheque for a million.

Two things worth